As a younger man, I was like a cat in a bag, probably not unlike most, scratching for meaning and adventure. So when I got the chance for a job teaching in the Bahamas, I decided to go for it. Before I went out to my post on the island of Andros, I stopped over in Nassau to meet with my cousin who lived there. She cooked me dinner, and afterward she showed me around her house. In the basement there was a sandy old guitar leaning against the wall. She didn’t play it anymore and suggested I take it out to the island. I told her I didn’t know how to play, didn’t know anything about music, and didn’t want to take it. But I took it anyway. That teaching job was a total washout, but that’s a story for another time. Six weeks later I was back in Canada, with no job for a year, living with my parents again as a 29 year-old. It was a difficult circumstance. For some reason, that old guitar made the trip back to Canada with me, and I remember it staring at me in my bedroom. I didn’t know E from G, but decided that for me to be in this situation, with this guitar, with the time to learn it, was some kind of important sign I needed to recognize. So I started taking lessons, once a week, at my local hometown music store.  Like any beginner it was a struggle, but struggle I did, learning those Neil Young songs that all the kids start with. It was very liberating. A couple of years later I met a real nice girl—Lisa, a chiropractor. Definitely marriage material.  I’d been seeing her for quite a while, and it was getting to that crux-time of commitment, where future plans need solidifying, lest a biological clock begin to ring too loudly.

I was keenly aware of my responsibilities and knew that I loved this girl, but I just wasn’t sure if I was ready or not. The soul-searching had been going on for weeks and the matter continued to be grey, and I’m certain she felt me creating a certain distance while I figured things through. It was at my house one day when decisiveness finally cleared a path through my tangled emotions. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you” came out of my mouth. Lisa wasn’t in the house when I said that. Nobody was. But my guitar was sitting snugly in its stand, and it heard those words, and that was it. I broke up with Lisa the next day.

Such an important part of that decision was knowing my guitar playing would essentially stop if I went to the next level with her, and I was just starting to make real leaps in my ability, and had so much further to go since I’d started so late in my life. I couldn’t leave it behind now. The chapter was still being written.  As much as I loved Lisa, I had to let her move on. Since then I’ve probably written 100 songs (definitely a couple about that situation), released a CD, cut my teeth in Nashville…too many things to mention. I’ve met so many great people and had so many great opportunities because of that guitar. The spirit and the energy surrounding it all is unparalleled. None of it would have been realized if I had different words for my guitar that day.  As tough as it was, I know I made the right decision.  Lisa is married and has a child now, and I feel really good about that.

For the Silo by John McIntosh (Speaking of Nashville, it really is true that you’ve got to “know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ‘em.” It’s a key to life. I’m reminded as well of a cameo in the Canadian road movie One Week. Tragically Hip frontman Gordon Downie is questioned by the protagonist: “How do you know if you’re really in love.” His answer is uncommonly succinct: “If you have to ask, you’re not.” Maybe the real question is: who, or what, do you love enough to live by? ed.)